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Quake II

APPOINTMENT WITH ARMAGEDDON

by Paul Jaquays
(with thanks to Paul Steed)

Long shadows claw desperately away from your dusty combat boots, fueled by the relentless sun of a late Texas afternoon. Shading your eyes against the glare, you squint for the thousandth time at the line of soldiers ahead of you. It stretches on endlessly across the rubble, disappearing at last into the cool shadows of a looming C-30K Marine troop carrier. Patience has never been your favorite virtue. It only seems endless. Soon you'll walk up the ramp into the ship ... feel the frigid jolt of the hyper sleep infuser ... and wake up half a jillion light-years away from the blowing dust and blasted ruins that surround the remains of Dallas-Fort Worth.

But, dammit! You want to FIGHT the Strogg, the alien vermin that've been kicking the ever-lovin'-crap out of Earth since you were a kid, not stand by while others do it for you. "Damn it!" You snarl again, slamming the barrel of your M61 side arm blaster against the palm of your scarred hand. "I've waited all my life to hit those Strogg bastards where THEY live. Now the brass tell us we're reserves this time."

"It's the armor jocks from the Terran First Mechanized going in on the first drop. They kick alien butt ... and we just wipe theirs!" Tokay, in line ahead of you, rolls his eyes. He's heard your gripes five times over already. "We're the 101st Spaceborne, the most decorated Marine unit in history!" you continue, "We pulverized the cyberscum on Subic and Gwaddle-Cee and what does it get us when the big push comes? We're the clean up crew ... space janitors mopping up the spew they leave behind!"

"That's 'maintenance engineers,'" Disruptor smirks from behind you, "You'd think the brass would at least lead with a unit that's seen some combat. Those greenies in the First Mech wouldn't know a cyborg from a toaster oven."

"Don't sell those kids too short," Tokay replies over his shoulder, "They've simmed this assault for the last year. We may not know what's down there on Stroggos, but the First have practiced enough variations on what could be there to give them the best chance of taking out the big gun and the 'hole projector. Besides, if the greenies really knew what the Strogg were like, the brass'd never get 'em to pull on their ceramsteel jammies and do the hyper-nitey-nite. But, hey! I wouldn't mind having some of that armor between my hide and all the frag that's gonna be bouncing around planet-side."

Overhead a squadron of V-1070 Vipers screams by, drowning out your voices, their tiger-shark mouths grinning savagely as they throttle up to escape velocity and vanish into the heavens to join the slowly growing fleet assembled by the Terran Coalition of Man (TCM). Somewhere up there, the Terran First Mechanized, the Ares Desert Rangers, and remnants of a handful of other veteran units are already entombed like mythic knights of old, sleeping in their armor, waiting to reawaken on the day of the last battle. That's what this is about, the last battle. Earth, Mars, Europa, and the remaining scattered outposts of humanity barely cling to what's left of civilization. We can't take another hit and still survive.

You adjust your equipment kit on your shoulder, rest your hand on the battered M61 side arm now holstered against your hip and watch the clouds stirred by the Vipers swirl and settle over the horizon. The clouds cast into silhouette the three newly constructed towers that rise even higher than the troop ship -- towers like nothing ever seen before on Earth. Towers that will allow us to strike back at the damn Strogg. Once, half a lifetime ago, there were cities where those towers stand, but that was then, that was before ...

In your mind, you hear it just as clearly now as you had as a kid. The vids carried the voice-over on every channel. "Slammer! Slammer! Slammer! Incoming, mark one - eight - seven - Fox-trot - Victor. This is Able Romeo Two One Niner. I count three slammers inbound over North Texas. Impact in ... Oh ... God! The big one's mirv'd, can't count the ..... It's raining Hell on Dallas, a damn firestorm. Can't see the other two, must be hitting about ..... now (muffled noises) shock ... wave ..... br ...king u...."

Like flaming meteors, the alien ships had slammed into the ground, plowing vast furrows, destroying the Dallas metroplex. Unbelievably, bio-mechanical aliens, hideous cyborgs, had swarmed out of the sizzling slam ships while they still glowed with reentry heat. Swiftly, they killed or captured anything that lived. We figured that they were after our planet's resources: minerals, metal ores and water, things like that. Only after the N bombs stopped them that first time did we find out what else they considered to be resources. Their processing factories did little to disguise the source of their food.

Oh yeah, their food. Even cyborgs have to eat. You remember the smartly dressed newsbabe smiling for the viewers as she scooped the competition, getting a first look into the alien factories. And how she spewed her lunch all over that snappy blazer as she staggered out, pale, gagging and choking.

Yeah, we stopped 'em, that first wave at least. We're supposed to remember the names of the cities that died: Dallas, Detroit, Novi on Europa, Olympus on Mars, and a bunch you can't pronounce. Like "Remember the Alamo," you guess. Of course, there's been so many lost since then that it's easier to remember the ones that are still around. We don't count the people gone, just the cities. We can't stand to think about it in terms of people. If we did, we'd just give up and let the aliens take the rest of us.

The aliens. Monsters really. Call themselves the Strogg. Some brain box boys think that they aren't ... or weren't ... much different from us. Of course, we don't jam bionic limbs and weapons on our soldiers and send them out to fight before the incisions heal. And last you checked, we don't chop our enemies into giblets before eating them on the battlefields ... or in their beds.

The line moves. And moves again. Into the cool shadows at last.

Cool. Like space. Mankind was just barely into space then. We had cities on in-system planets already, even a newborn nation on Mars. No, you mean real space, the void between the stars. Humanity had just put our first probes on planets in another star system. Took forever to get there and forever to hear back. The aliens changed all that. We survived that first attack and learned quickly, but an interstellar war machine couldn't be built overnight. Even as they destroyed us, city by city, nation by nation, they fed the fire that would help keep up alive as a race, motivating us to survive and unify as the Terran Coalition of Man ... if only to fulfill our driving desires: Retaliation ... Revenge .... RETRIBUTION!

Yet we couldn't stike back. We couldn't even steal the technology that brought the aliens to Earth. For, mysteriously enough, the alien ships had no interstellar technology, nothing that could move ships that large across the intervening light years. They were little more than big bullets. To take the battle away from its home, mankind had to look to its own ingenuity. It took fifteen painful, hard fought years for us to strike back ... and to suffer the greatest single combat defeat in the history of the race. No one came home. No one.

And here we go again...

"Yo, soldier, you sleepin" standing up agin? I need that arm bare." The medtech's voice startles you back to alertness and you unseal your uniform sleeve. Competent hands guide you into the coffin-like opening of your own personal Mark 9A drop pod; sleek, black and ... you pray each time ... invisible to the enemy. Everyone drills this routine, but some soldiers panic the first time it's for real and earn a "happy shot" chaser to the hypersleep. Despite what the docs say, going into hypersnooze with a happy shot makes it twice as bad when you come to during reentry. Been there. Done that.

Suddenly, it strikes you that something isn't going by the numbers. "Mm .... my gear? ... Wh ... w ... where's my g ... gear?" The words stumble out, tripping clumsily off your tongue. Already the numbing hypersleep infusion is racing through you like hot ice.

"Don' you worry none. Procedure change. It'll be stowed in flight." One of the techs says with authority as the drop pod snaps shut; and you slip into endless dreams danced to by the gentle flicker of your vital signs. Nappy time. Hope you wake up soldier.

Cold Dreams.

Lessons came hard for the human race and the combined forces of the young Terran Coalition of Man (TCM). H-Hour over Stroggos was the first, and the harshest for the TCM. Despite the fact that we couldn't find out how the aliens got here, we did learn where they came from ... and the locations of other star systems they'd already conquered. In short order, over half of mankind's available spacecraft were fitted with our newly invented interstellar drives and cold sleep chambers. Stroggos, the alien home world was 12 years out at our best speed.

While you were growing up in star raid shelters, the TCM's best warriors were outbound for glory. While you were in boot camp, the world waited to hear the news of victory that would come back at light speed. While you were in cold sleep, outbound for Subic on a troop ship with a faster, vastly improved interstellar drive, the dwindling populations of Earth, Mars and Europa experienced the incoming reports from the Stroggos attack fleet as if they were current events and not the echoes of long past events. Everyone had someone they cared about in that fleet ... someone who wasn't coming back.

*Crackle* ... *fzzzz* ... The face that smiled from light years away exuded confidence. He was everyone's great uncle; with a twinkle in his eye that assured you that everything would be all right and the troops would be home by Christmas. "Greetings to the people of the Coalition. This is Admiral Nuygen Diaz, speaking to you from the bridge deck of the Phobos, flagship for the Terran Coalition of Man fleet. Although you won't hear my voice for several years yet, the fleet has just dropped out of void space and we are entering the outer orbits of Stroggos, the alien's home system. We expect to drop through the atmosphere and make planetfall soon."

We were so damn confident.

.... ** ssssssss* syzGRAKle .... Pop* The woman in a grimy chief petty officer's uniform standing on the smoke-filled ship's bridge could barely be discerned against the static. Blood streamed down her dark face as she stared bleakly out of the past to speak a message that would long outlive her. "To all Terran Coalition forces. This is brevet Captain Jeanette Rogers, from the supply tender Richard M. Nixon, currently outside ... *pop* ... Stroggos 12. Code Zulu Baker Niner. Repeat ... Zulu Baker Niner. Mission has failed. Their *crackle* knocked our ships ... *crackle* ... as we ... descent through ... atmosphere. Nothing got through. .... Some kind of ... *crackle fzzzz* ... planetside *pop* blew the line ships into splinters.

"The Elizabeth Dole just dropped off our scans. She was the last chance that anyone would make it out of the system. We're alone now. We ... that is the crew and I ... have agreed to direct all the Nixon's power into its drive, including life support. It's the only chance that a record of this ... this battle will make it anywhere near Earth....."

The Terran Coalition of Man's first interstellar space fleet, the pride of humanity, vaporized as they began their assault, obliterated before a single return shot could be fired.

Learn, grow wise; and in wisdom, strike back.

They found the Nixon and began to learn the secrets it had to offer, when you were dropping through the outer atmosphere of Subic in a stealth shuttle with the TCM 101st Spaceborne. Other assault forces were or soon would be hitting systems with names like Buka, Midway, and Rabaul. Our ships weren't shot out of orbit, but we had other lessons to learn.

"Boomer?" the voice crackled through every soldier's headset. "Drop in 30 on my mark. You copy?"

"Roger that!" Your sergeant snapped back. "OK boys and girls, you see the clock on your heads-up. Two demerits for anyone who up-chucks during bounce and roll!"

*Shthunk!!* Your squad's drop pod releases from belly of the shuttle and hurtles down toward the planet's surface like a flaming meteor. *Wheee-oooooo!* Incendiary atmosphere howls past the pod's rapidly heating ablative shell. *Ka-WHUMP! * The pod wall suddenly implodes to your left in a fiery blast, vaporizing Boomer and half the squad. The super-heated air incinerates two more soldiers on the opposite wall. Three living hands and who knows how many dead ones simultaneously slam down on jettison bars and the remaining walls of the pod explode outward, spraying you, the other survivors and the corpses across the landscape like bomblets. Which is what you'll become if the air-recovery wing doesn't ... *whapple* *CRACK* ... deploy above you. The stealth parafoil unfolds overhead and a cloud of tinsel envelops you in a sensor-jamming halo. Only now do you realize that you've survived a direct hit on the drop pod. Below you, the alien fortifications spread across the landscape, lit here, there, and there again, by the shrieks of blaster and rocket fire, all aimed at Terran Coalition troops blazing downward through the heavens.

Building by building, courtyard by courtyard, the survivors of the first drop assault fought across the occupied landscape. The aliens died in droves in the subterranean corridors and chambers of Subic. Even so, six of ten soldiers died before they reached the ground and massive pulse blasters in fortified bunkers drove off the Terran Coalition space fleet, giving you a rough idea of what it must have been like over Stroggos that first time, those many years ago. Three of the medals on your dress greens and who knows how many scars were rewards for solving that particular problem.

But destroying the aliens on Subic, on Buka and a dozen other planets did nothing to stop slam assaults against TCM planets. The alien ships just kept appearing in orbit around our worlds and skipped across the atmosphere until they found their targets. If there were clues on the worlds we "liberated," our scientists weren't finding them in the wreckage we left behind.

The dying crew of the Richard M. Nixon had pointed it towards Earth (or where Earth would be in 50 years. The power that they could have been used to sustain them through hypersleep had instead been used to bring the ship up to near light speed and keep it's computers alive. Had we known the nature of the alien defenses before Subic, total casualties would have been a fraction of the losses we suffered. But that information was trivial compared to what was yet to come.

Lessons are repeated until learned.

We knew how to launch a second assault against Stroggos, one that could survive their planetary defense guns. But the Strogg had a secret that allowed them to hurl assault ships across space faster than we could fly from Earth to Mars. By the time a task force could reach the aliens' home system, our own homes would belong to them. We were winning battles, but unless something changed in our favor, we would lose the war.

Gwaddle-Cee, two years later (though you were awake for damn little of it). Horrendous bolts of energy sizzled and crackled through space, firing on phantom targets and missing most of the Terran Coalition assault carriers as they descended on their first and only orbital approaches. Like orbiting Gatling guns, the unlovely carriers belched massive gouts of projectiles groundward, each on its own unique trajectory. The alien guns ignored the falling pods: too small to be tracked by their targeting computers.

Like armored cocoons, each pod held a single soldier, who'd been in hyper-sleep since the fleet left Earth. Only now were those soldiers coming aware, driven from cold dreams by rapid changes in their body chemistry, with adrenaline, sugars, enzymes, and exotic compounds being suddenly supplied by multiple skin infusions. And as is the case since people first began swallowing pills, one should always ask a pharmacist before mixing medicines.

"I hope one of those aliens is a medtech," you snarled, imagining one inside your sights and finding it difficult to shake off the side effects of the happy shot given to you months (years?) ago. The horror of the drop over Subic came back as they laid you into the pod for hyper-snooze ... and ... well ... you wacked out. Happy shot, hypersleep and wake-em-up don't mix well. "Damn helmet's gonna stink like puke for a month." While you kept an eye on the estimated time until impact, you ran through checkouts on your gear. The pod shuddered and you panicked into an adrenaline surge. "Whew, just the drag chute deploying. Three ... Two ... One ... Zero ... uh ... Zero and a half .... zero and a ... *WHA-BUMFHHH* The pod slammed to a halt. *Boommmfffh!* The hatch blew and your restraints fell away. Alien night filled your landing pod. Time to get serious.

Night faded into gray light and the steaming cesspits of Gwaddle-Cee warmed to shroud the land in greasy vapor. Once, twice, thr ... somewhere you lost count ... the cycle of night and day repeated itself. One by one, your most powerful weapons failed, corroded, or hopelessly fouled by the slimy clinging air. But the patchwork cyborgs died for you anyway, limbs and heads and nameless whatevers spread willy-nilly across GC's landscape. The relief forces that found you dubbed you "Hansel," describing the trail of "crumbs" you had left behind.

Every life lost on Gwaddle-Cee bought survival for mankind. For on GC, we found, nearly intact, the answer we'd been seeking. And because of the crew of the Richard M. Nixon, we now finally understood what we now possessed - what the Strogg had been using to launch their attacks against us: a black hole generator, capable of ripping holes through weak weaves in the fabric of space. Why build star drives when one can simply open a door to where one wants to go and shoot through it?

But by the time we had a 'hole generator built, there on the ruins of Dallas/Forth Worth, it was obvious what we had to do. It was our best chance. It might be our last and only chance.

Lessons are repeated until learned. Lessons are ...

Warmth. Feeling. Vibration. Voices?

" ... as we had theorized, Stroggos' atmosphere is harsh but breathable ....some sort of main city structure now mapped and targeted. Charlie, Mike, and Sierra squads prime environment controls and prepare for pod launch. Delta, November and Tango squads standby." The voice is unfamiliar, serious, perhaps a note too shrill. Without introduction, a calmer almost hushed voice comes on the link, "All right, heroes. Listen up. This is your fleet commander. Warp-burst com-link has indicated that these bastards have taken 15 more TCM cities. We are the last hope and MUST draw the line here. Good luck." Radio silence, then the earlier com announcer comes back, "Outer doors up. Commence countdown for tube firing in T minus ten. All locks disengaged. 10...9...8...green straight across...5...4...3...2...1...LAUNCH!"

*Kashunk* The familiar feeling of acceleration presses you back into the restraints. Sleepy memories crystallize like icy spikes down your spine and you reach for where your gear, a machine gun and body armor, ought to be stowed. Damn. Nothing but your side arm blaster. Hope somebody left some goodies where you can find them.

The com-link crackles to life again.

"Com-link lost with First Mechanized. This is a Priority Six Able order: Locate the aliens' com-station and set up connection between native hardware and our communication relay link. Presume 100% casualties in First Mechanized. Repeat, all are assumed to be dead or taken captive. Further orders will follow once surface communication is reestablished."

A second voice follows the first, and this one you know well.

"Wakey wakey, boys and girls. Like the man said, it's just us kids against an alien world what wants our butts for lunch. Earth is ..." Static garbles the rest.

You toggle your mike switch to on, but impact with Stroggos deprives Tokay of the wisdom of your reply. Stunned, you watch as two Marines race past you. An explosion where you think they went shocks you into sensibility. You grab your blaster and leap out blazing. The curtain's going up and you are now probably the only show in town. You just know you'll knock 'em dead.

Author: Paul Jaquays
Copyright 1997 ©Id Software, Inc.

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